In Memory

February 21 is my mother’s birthday. I didn’t remember it last year; instead, I remembered her death day in October. What does this tell me? It has been three, nearly four years since she passed, at the young age of 80, and I am realizing that I have been focusing on the sorrow of her passing instead of on the joy that she lived, that she was born this month, in 1930. I realize that I am still grieving, and will always grieve for her, but I need to remember and cherish her life accomplishments, her wit and generosity and warmth.

My mother was a wonderful person, but I am not remembering her through rose-colored glasses; she was a difficult person to please, quixotic in her friendships, judgmental like you wouldn’t believe. She was a gifted artist with a love for brilliant colors, she could sing and play the piano, she was an encyclopedia of knowledge about “old” films, and she possessed that rare quality that made her life never dull: she was unpredictable. She spoiled her children, but I didn’t complain. And, most important to me, she always encouraged my writing.

If she were still with us in this existence, it’s intriguing to think of what she would be doing. Among a billion other things, she would be writing her own blog, tweeting up a storm, and she’d have more friends on Facebook than any of us.

Wherever you are, you rock, Mama. Happy Birthday.